Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set Page 5

  Instead of answering he turned the radio up.

  (Oliver, it won’t work.)

  He gritted his teeth and swallowed the retort.

  (Oliver, I can hear your thoughts. I know what you’re trying to do and it won’t work.)

  ‘How do you know? It might.’

  (I guess I don’t know for sure, but I’m not a parasite. You didn’t pick me up because you were the first person I came across. There has to be another reason for it.)

  ‘But you don’t know, you just admitted it,’ he replied, latching onto the one thing he wanted to hear.

  (Fine. If it’ll get you to accept what’s happening, then let’s go.)

  They both stayed silent until he parked at the cemetery. Mid-week was a quieter time for visits, there was just one other car sitting quietly next to the graves. The driver was nowhere to be seen when Oliver climbed out. It was strangely quiet, even for a cemetery, but then he realised it was the lack of kids noise that made it seem odd. He was used to coming here with the family and Rose and Reed weren’t known for volume control.

  It took a few minutes to find Violet’s grave, but finally he stood reading the faded words.

  (Please Oliver, don’t do this.)

  ‘I thought you said it wouldn’t work. Why do you sound worried?’

  (I…)

  ‘We’re here, out you go,’ he said.

  (I’m not a dog you’re kicking out the door!)

  ‘Get back into…’ he hesitated. Ground seemed a little harsh, heaven was a bit presumptuous – after all she could have gone the other way. ‘Wherever you came from.’ The words tailed off as he realised how weak it all was.

  (Woof.)

  ‘I’m serious.’

  (Woof, woof.)

  ‘Stop it, Violet. I must have picked you up from here, so you can go back to wherever. Just get out of my head.’

  (I don’t want to.)

  ‘Why not?’

  (Because.)

  ‘That’s an excuse Rose would use.’

  (Because I don’t want to go.)

  ‘Someone else will come along, and you can hitch a ride with them.’

  (What if they don’t. What if this is my one chance.)

  A soft breeze blew the smell of freshly cut grass into Oliver’s face and he had a flash back to when he was a kid and mum would reward him for mowing the lawn with still warm biscuits. He shook his head to dislodge the memory.

  (Please Oliver, this is important.)

  He felt his resolve weaken, and she pressed her case.

  (I don’t want to go back to nothing. I know this isn’t living but it’s as close as I’ve been in seventy years and I need to get my name back.)

  ‘But why? Why is your name so important to you?’

  ‘Oh, names are very important, don’t you think?’

  Oliver’s heart leapt and he whirled around, stumbling into Violet’s headstone. An elderly woman was standing in the next row.

  ‘Sorry to startle you, dear. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but well there’s only two of us here and even though my hearing isn’t quite what it used to be, it’s hard to miss someone arguing with themselves.’

  ‘I.I.I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t, you weren’t even aware I was there.’ The woman stepped through a gap in the headstones. She was a large woman, with perfectly groomed grey hair.

  ‘I’m Dora, and if you don’t mind me saying, it seems like you’ve got a problem.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Talking to yourself in a cemetery is perfectly acceptable, I’ve often had conversations with my Max. But you were having an argument and that’s less usual, don’t you think?’

  Oliver felt heat in his cheeks and he looked away. ‘I was just…’

  ‘Talking to Violet,’ Dora said.

  Oliver turned back to see her peering over his shoulder at the headstone. He nodded.

  ‘She seems a little old to be a loved one.’

  (That’s disgusting.)

  ‘She isn’t ... wasn’t. I mean, I wasn’t. Arguing.’

  Dora watched him with pursed lips, then moved over to Violet’s headstone and studied the words. ‘She’s so young.’

  ‘Yes,’ Oliver agreed, because there didn’t seem anything else to say. Then he realised something. ‘Was young.’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘You said she’s so young, but she’s dead, so…’ He tailed off, suddenly feeling stupid for correcting what was obviously a mistake.

  ‘If she’s so dead then why were you having a conversation with her?’ Dora switched her gaze and Oliver wilted under the intelligent eyes. ‘Is it because she’s in your head.’

  His eyes bulged. ‘What?’

  (Holy…)

  ‘She is in your head, isn’t she?’ Dora pressed.

  Numbly Oliver nodded again. The old woman beamed and patted him on the arm.

  ‘First time is it dear?’

  ‘First time for what?’ Oliver replied, thoroughly confused.

  ‘For a hitchhiker,’ she said in a manner that seemed to mock his ignorance.

  (A what?)

  ‘A what?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘A hitchhiker dear. An unsettled spirit riding around in your head. Of course there’s probably a more technical term for them.’ She frowned, adding years to her face. ‘But I like the term hitchhiker, don’t you?’ She smiled and age fell away, revealing a glimpse into the past.

  ‘How do you…’

  ‘Know about them? You don’t think you’re the first to pick one up do you? I’ve been getting them for years.’ Her tone was matter of fact, which Oliver found more unsettling.

  He struggled to form sentences in his mind. It had never occurred to him that there might be others out there. He latched onto the one piece of information that was foremost in his thoughts. ‘You’re experienced, with these hitchhikers. So you could take Violet off my hands.’

  (Gee thanks.)

  Dora gave him a sly smile. ‘It doesn’t work that way dear. The spirits choose their people based on need.’

  (No way did I choose him.)

  ‘So if you have Violet riding around in your head, there’s a reason.’

  ‘What if I don’t want her in my head?’

  ‘That’s not your choice I’m afraid. In my experience they only leave once their quest is done.’

  ‘Quest,’ Oliver repeated.

  ‘Yes, it does sound a little noble doesn’t it,’ Dora laughed. ‘But I can’t think of a more appropriate word.’

  ‘So I’m stuck with her.’

  (Told you.)

  ‘My advice is just go with it – you might even enjoy the experience. Good luck dear.’ Dora turned to leave.

  ‘Wait, I have more questions,’ Oliver called out.

  Dora waved a hand. ‘Sorry, I’m late for bridge. You’ll work it out. I did.’

  Short of physically restraining the old lady there was nothing Oliver could do but watch her climb into her car and drive off with a cheery wave.

  (Feel better now?)

  ‘Shut up,’ he said bitterly.

  She wisely left him alone all the way home, where he sat down in front of the laptop, and after futilely searching for hitchhikers on the internet and receiving countless irrelevant results, he opened the book and tried to do some work.

  (Is this your book?)

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  (It’s not very good.)

  ‘Thanks!’ he snapped. ‘Keep your opinions to yourself.’

  (Well it’s not. Even you thought so before.)

  He stared at the words moodily, then checked the internet for any updates on the antique store murder. Nothing had changed, other than a statement from the police saying they were pursuing an active line of investigation. With a frown Oliver hoped that he wasn’t the line.

  (Oliver?)

  ‘Yes?’

  (Do you really want to get rid of me?)

  He listened to the
tentative words and realised he may have inadvertently gone too far in his desire to have her gone. ‘It’s not you, it’s the whole situation. I’m not equipped for it – it’s not who I am.’

  Later in the afternoon he picked Rose and Reed up from school and went through the daily ritual of emptying crusts and disgustingly slippery plum stones from lunch boxes. Rose proudly read him her homework, V is for Vegetables, and he praised her with as much enthusiasm as he could muster for a book she’d read every day for the last two weeks.

  (Nice reading.)

  ‘Thanks,’ Rose said.

  Oliver, who had just finished telling her how proud he was of her reading ability, thought nothing of it.

  Later he played in the back yard with Reed. As he heaved his son over the fence for the third time to retrieve a wayward ball, he reflected that the boy was getting older and heavier, while Oliver was just getting older.

  (I never played with my father – he was too busy working or getting drunk. My mum was only slightly better. She spent all her time sewing clothes for money.)

  Oliver grunted in response as he pulled Reed back into the yard.

  (Mind you, that was handy later when I needed to turn old dresses into new ones. She was a surgeon with a needle.)

  There was a sad undertone in her voice and Oliver wondered if there was more to it than just missing her dead mother. Distracted, he didn’t see the ball until it smashed into his face.

  ‘Son of a bitch!’ he said clutching his nose.

  (Ha, ha, ha.)

  ‘Sorry Dad. Rose, Rose, Dad swore.’

  Rose came out the sliding door. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing, it doesn’t matter,’ Oliver assured her as he blinked away the tears.

  ‘He said bitch,’ Reed gleefully told her.

  ‘I don’t think we need to say it again.’

  (But you did say it.)

  ‘Shut up,’ Oliver told her.

  ‘Oooh Dad that’s naughty,’ Rose told him.

  ‘I wasn’t talking to you.’

  ‘Who were you talking to then?’ she asked.

  ‘Bitch,’ Reed said, trying it on for size.

  ‘That’s enough Reed.’

  (Bitch. Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch.)

  Rose disappeared into the house, only to reappear a short time later with a plaster. ‘Here you go Daddy, I’ll put it on for you.’

  ‘That’s okay honey, it’s not bleeding.’

  The little girl, who was either going to grow up to be a doctor, or hold shares in a plaster company, wasn’t having a bar of it. Oliver waited patiently while she put the plaster across his nose, knocking it in the process and setting off a fresh round of watering eyes. She patted him on the arm.

  ‘Would you like a lollypop?’

  Oliver shook his head which he immediately regretted.

  ‘Well can I have one then? I did a good job of looking after you didn’t I?’

  Oliver revised the list of her potential careers to include hostage negotiator. He relented and she pulled a lollypop from her pocket and innocently unwrapped it.

  (You’re going to be in so much trouble in a few years.)

  Oliver had to agree.

  Between dinner time and demanding kids he didn’t normally get to watch the evening news, but he made a special effort that night. He parked the kids in front of the second TV with plates of macaroni cheese and nervously waited for something to come on. Luckily Jennifer was working late so he didn’t need to explain the change in routine. He didn’t have to wait long. It was the second item.

  (They have women reading the news?)

  ‘Of course,’ he said dismissively as he tried to concentrate.

  (Go us.)

  Most of the report was a rehash of things he’d already read. There was a cross to the shop though and Oliver felt a jolt of nerves. The reporter confirmed everything the news anchor had said, and added that the police were currently going through the shop inventory to see if robbery was the motive.

  ‘That wasn’t overly helpful,’ Oliver said as he turned the volume down.

  (I told you, we need to get back there.)

  ‘How would that help? We need to focus on finding the fake you.’

  Just then two things happened simultaneously. He heard the garage door roll upwards and the front doorbell rang.

  When he exited the TV room, Reed was ahead of him.

  His son peered through the glass and excitedly opened the door, at the same time calling out, ‘Dad, the police are here.’

  Oliver skipped a step and his heart ramped up as the internal garage door opened to reveal Jennifer, and Rose barrelled past him.

  (This can’t be good.)

  Jennifer raised an eyebrow and he shrugged. The children stared at the two men in stunned awe. One of them was Sergeant Thomas, while the other man wore a suit.

  ‘Mr Atkinson? We have some follow up questions for you. May we come in?’ The way Sergeant Thomas said it was half question, half order.

  ‘What’s going on Oliver?’ Jennifer asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you later honey. Could you take the kids into the other room?’

  She gestured to the kids who reluctantly followed their mother. Oliver ushered the two police officers into the lounge where they sat side by side on the couch.

  ‘Sir, I’m Detective Roman Wilson. I understand you met with Sergeant Thomas earlier today? We have a few follow up questions.’

  ‘Of course,’ Oliver replied with a slight crack in his voice.

  Detective Wilson was in his early thirties, with short brown hair, pale skin, and a composed vibe about him.

  ‘As you know we are investigating the death of Peter Yarrow, the proprietor of the Yarrow’s Antique Store. You have confirmed that you were in the shop yesterday, is that right?’ The detective had a firm probing voice.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Was anyone else in the shop during your visit?’

  Oliver’s mind raced. He wondered if he should lie.

  (There’s no reason to lie to him.)

  He had to admit Violet was right. ‘There was a woman.’

  Both police leaned forward expectantly.

  ‘Did you know the woman?’ Detective Wilson asked.

  ‘I’d never seen her before,’ Oliver answered truthfully.

  The detective sat back with a look of disappointment. He studied Oliver carefully. ‘Are you sure you’d never met her before?’

  Oliver shook his head.

  Detective Wilson sighed. ‘Mr Atkinson, what exactly is your relationship with Violet Tumbleton?’

  Seven

  (Uh oh.)

  ‘Who?’ Oliver replied nervously.

  (We’re busted Oliver. Tell him the truth.)

  Detective Wilson gave him a probing look, before referring to his notebook. The silence sped from polite to uncomfortable in the space of seconds.

  (This guy is good.)

  If you say he’s cute I’ll….

  (Now that you mention it.)

  ‘Mr Atkinson, are you telling me that you are not acquainted with Violet Tumbleton?’ Detective Wilson asked in a voice tinged with scepticism.

  ‘I…’

  (Goodness me, Oliver! Pull it together or he’ll have us locked up.)

  ‘I..I’m sorry, yes, you threw me a bit asking if I had a relationship with her. We only met the one time, in the shop. Well, when I say met, it wasn’t an actual meeting. She was there, obviously, and so was I, but not together. I don’t think we even talked to each other,’ he finished lamely. Normally he was the inquisitor in the house, and the children were the suspects. Then it occurred to him that he was handling this as well as his five-year-old daughter.

  Sergeant Thomas scribbled carefully in his notebook.

  Detective Wilson raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Is it common then, Mr Atkinson, for women that you’ve only just, sort of, met to buy you a $400 present?’

  Oliver stared, wondering how he poss
ibly knew that.

  (Say something, idiot.)

  ‘She didn’t buy it – I mean she offered to pay for it after I broke it.’ As soon as he said the words he realised they sounded as believable as when his children told him they had brushed their teeth at bedtime, despite never having gone into the bathroom.

  (I’m screwed.)

  ‘That’s very generous,’ Detective Wilson left the last word hanging between them, floating on a cloud of disbelief.

  ‘Yes I thought so. From what I could tell she had just sold a painting for a lot of money and seemed to be in a good mood.’

  Both police officers perked up when he mentioned the painting. Detective Wilson leaned forward and laced his long, thin fingers together.

  ‘What exactly did she say to you?’

  Oliver told them as much as he could remember, with occasional prompting from Violet.

  The detective leaned back and studied his finger nails. ‘Would you recognise the painting if you saw it again?’ he finally asked.

  Oliver screwed his face up in confusion. Surely the painting is in the shop?

  (Maybe it was a robbery gone wrong.)

  Oliver had little interest in art, and his more recent exposure was limited to the unicorns and clowns with guns that currently adorned the fridge. He started to shake his head...

  (I remember it perfectly.)

  …which turned to a nod mid-action.

  The two officers exchanged glances that Oliver couldn’t read. ‘Why are you asking about Violet? Is she a suspect?’ he said in a voice that to his ears sounded anything but casual.

  Detective Wilson gave Oliver a penetrating gaze. ‘We have a lot of questions at this stage of the investigation,’ he said.

  (There’s more to it than that. Oh God what if she did it? What if that woman stole my name and murdered someone?)

  ‘Quiet,’ Oliver told her.

  ‘Excuse me sir?’

  Shit!

  (Tell him it’s too quiet.)

  ‘It’s too quiet. Never a good thing in a house with two small children.’

  Sergeant Thomas gave a knowing nod.

  Just then, as if by command, Rose and Reed burst through the door. Rose stopped dead and stared open-mouthed at the two intruders in her safe space. Reed raced up to Oliver and plonked down on his knee. Oliver winced at the sudden deposit of twenty-three kilograms.

  ‘Are you real cops? Do you have guns? What about handcuffs? Are you going to arrest my dad?’ The questions tumbled over each other and Detective Wilson pressed back into the couch at the sudden onslaught.